i sink into
the squeaky brown leather couch,
the black screen of the television glares at me
and the obnoxious floral wallpaper dances behind my head.
i relax
and you comfort me in your chicken noodle soup warmth.

i place my head on your patient chest
and your heartbeat slows as your body settles.
i reach up and untuck the curl from behind your ear,
smooth life into each strand of tired hair with my fingertips.
i sigh
and my tongue unchains my thoughts at last.

i mumble about my slowly fading friends,
my angered family,
misunderstandings,
disbeliefs,
the stereotypes about us
written in their untrusting eyes
these i am pelted with until i drown
in the bitter thoughts.

your lips against my head soothe me
they thirst for mine
and we touch …

"it’s love that they doubt," i whisper,
(your love still lingers at the corners of my mouth)
"and I listen to their doubts,
believe the experienced and long-trusted."

so perhaps you and i are wrong?
we are not one, but two
we do not love, we lust
it will not last, i’ll lose –
"i know," your eyes sing at me,
"that i love you."
i am silent
and i stare into your scarred hand
that rests on my wrist ever so gently –
it almost reminds me of your kisses.
i know i love you too.

so while their shouts lurk in the corners,
i escape into our often dreamed-of future
or onto that static phone-line connection
or that caramelized leather sofa
waiting in your basement.